Hot on Ice: A Hockey Romance Anthology

by Avery Flynn

  “Message received. But you don’t have to worry about me breaking Trish’s heart.” If anyone’s heart were in danger, it was his. He had a hard time leaving her that morning—even knowing she’d be waiting for him when he returned. He couldn’t imagine having to leave on Sunday and not knowing when he’d see her again. She’d been pulling away, that much was obvious, he just didn’t know why or what to do about it.

  The game seemed to go on forever, but hanging with the Kincaids made it bearable. He kept checking his watch and wondering if time really moved that slowly or if he was misreading the damn thing. Unfortunately for him, he’d gotten much better at telling time, and it would seem time had really slowed.

  Stryker unlocked the door and stepped into the house. He kicked off his shoes and tossed his hat on the coat rack, wanting nothing more than an ice-cold beer.

  After eighteen holes in the late July sun, even though he wore a hat, sun glasses, and sunscreen, he felt as if he’d been deep fried. “Trish, I’m home.” He tossed the keys on the table by the door and stood there shocked at what he’d just said.

  Trish strolled toward him from the bedroom wearing a Humpin’ Hannah’s t-shirt, cut-offs and a smile. “Oh man, you look fried. Did you have a good game?”

  “I guess, but to tell you the truth, golf bores the hell out of me. Compared to hockey, golf isn’t much of a challenge. All you have to do is hit a ball while standing still on perfectly manicured grass, not on a sheet of ice while balancing on two blades, and in golf, you don’t have a bunch of animals attacking you with sticks. The ball stays still as opposed to the puck which is coming at you at a hundred miles an hour. Sure, the hole is smaller, but there’s no goalie in golf, either, so that makes up for the size difference. Golf is way too civilized, no trash talking, hell, no talking at all, but then with Hunter, Fisher, and Trapper along, it wasn’t as boring as it could have been.” He leaned in for a kiss, slid his arm around her, and headed to the kitchen. “I’m dying for a beer and a shower.”

  “Sit.” She pointed to a barstool and grabbed a beer mug out of the freezer. He watched as she tipped the beer into it—a skill she must have learned from Karma.

  “I missed you today.”

  She looked up from the beer she poured and stilled. “I’m sure you’ll get your fill of me before Sunday.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “Am I? What are you going to do, Stryker? Move to Boise and date me? We were thrown together and, don’t get me wrong, it’s been great. Still, if Karma hadn’t come up with this crazy scheme, you’d be doing whatever you do in New Orleans and I’d be working and living my life.”

  “But we were thrown together—that changes everything—for me at least. I just don’t understand what the problem is. There’s no reason we can’t stay together and see where it leads.”

  She set his beer in front of him, keeping the bar between them. “Did you ever read Harry Potter?”

  Where the hell was she going with this? His mind scrambled to keep up. “I did—on Audible.”

  “The entire time I read the series, I always kept the fact that the books were well-written works of fiction, an incredible fantasy, in the forefront of my mind. It’s the same way with you. I went into this thing with my eyes wide open. What we have isn’t real, it’s a wonderful fantasy, and like Harry Potter, it’s going to end. Instead of you boarding the Hogwarts Express, you’re getting on a plane. The story will be over, and that’s my reality.”

  He got off his stool and pushed it under the bar, holding the back so tightly, he was surprised the wood didn’t splinter. “You think it’s not real? So every time we made love, you were what? Playing a part?”

  “No, you don’t understand.”

  “No, it’s you who doesn’t understand. What we have together is incredible, amazing, and very, very real. The fact that you choose to believe differently doesn’t make it any less real. It just gives you an excuse to act like a coward.”

  “A coward? You’re calling me a coward?” Her eyes flashed fire and she looked as if she were about to start poking him in the chest again. She stomped around the bar and leaned into him.

  God she was gorgeous when she got fired up.

  “I’m the one who stepped out of my comfort zone. I’m the one who, against my better judgement, took the chance to be with you.”

  “That’s bullshit. You said yourself you never thought it would work, you were playing a fucking game of dress-up. Pretending to be courageous, but knowing all you had to do was step back and say it was all make believe. That whatever happened was part of some unrealistic fantasy. But I’m real, Cher, and what I feel for you is real. The trust I gave you is real. Do you think any part of that was easy for me? Do you think that having you in my life, giving you, the one person who knows me better than anyone else, the power to crush me doesn’t scare the shit out of me? Let me tell you something, Cher, it does. Still, the thought of losing you because I never faced my biggest fear, the thought of losing you because I didn’t do everything in my power to show you that I might be worthy of being with you was worse than laying everything on the line and still failing. Win or lose, at least I had the balls to try. So yeah, I think you’re a coward.”

  She just stood there staring at him, her eyes glassy with unshed tears, but she didn’t say a word.

  His world felt as if it had deflated, a pressure built in his chest making it difficult to breathe, and all he could think of was getting the hell out of there. He grabbed the beer and drained the mug. “I’ll get my stuff together and get out of your hair. You’re off the hook, you don’t have to pretend anymore.”

  11

  Oh God, what had she done? Trish watched Stryker escape to the bedroom and heard him rummaging around, packing his things. She took a deep breath, feeling like she’d never get enough air. Her chest was so tight, her breath coming in fast and furious. She covered her mouth with shaking hands and tried to breathe in slow, deep breaths. This was so not a good time to hyperventilate.

  His expression mirrored the devastated stare that had broken her heart when he thought she’d betrayed him. Now, instead of being able to say, “No, I’ve never done anything that would hurt you,” she’d done exactly what he accused her of, she’d been a coward.

  She thought she was protecting herself, but by doing that, she’d hurt him. From the look in his eyes, she’d hurt him terribly. She had to fix it. She had to at least apologize.

  She went to her bedroom, the door was closed, and she was unsure of what the correct apology and groveling etiquette dictated. Should she knock? Should she just walk in? She chose to walk in because she was afraid if she knocked he’d refuse her entry, and that might just kill her.

  Stryker’s back was to her, and he stared, unmoving, at the contents of her closet. About two feet of space was dedicated to her Stryker Gyllenhaal jersey and hockey paraphernalia collection. She even had a few pieces that were signed by him. She’d bought them on eBay the first year he played with the Rajuns. She should probably be embarrassed, but she wasn’t. She was too busy wanting to go back in time to when she’d heard him call out, ‘Trish, I’m home.’ She wanted to go back and tell him what the thought of never hearing that again did to her.

  She walked up to him, rested her head against his back, and wrapped her arms around his waist. He stiffened to the point of shattering—it was like leaning against a rock. “Stryker, I’m sorry.”

  He tried to dislodge her, but she held on tight. “I don’t need your fucking pity. I need you to let go. Leave me. Please.”

  “No. God, Stryker, listen to me. I don’t pity you. And you’re right, I’m a coward. I’m sorry, I got scared and freaked out. Yesterday I realized I’d gone and fallen in love with you. All I could think was that you were going to leave and I told myself what we have isn’t real. I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I never knew I could.”

  “This isn’t part of that warped fantasy game of yours, is it?”

  “No, don�
��t you get it? I was half in love with you, well, since college, but you didn’t know I was alive. I was okay with that. I mean, who doesn’t have a crush on someone they never have a prayer of being with?”

  “But that’s not true—“

  “Let me explain, or try to anyway. I’ve been studying the law of attraction, manifesting the destiny you want, that kind of thing. You’re supposed to envision what it is you want. So when I envisioned my dream man, it was always you I pictured. I told myself that you were a placeholder—like the pictures that come in the frames you buy at Walmart. When it worked, and the Universe, or God, or Karma dumped you right in my lap, I may have had a little freak out. What was the Universe thinking? I wasn’t ready. I mean, I’d just started reading about this. But you coming here, now, is like having to take a final the first week of a quantum physics class. I was trying to think positively, to be present, to be mindful, but I’m not really good at it. And when you spend your life thinking that the one person in the world you wanted to notice you didn’t—”

  He turned around then, looking so mad, if she didn’t know him, she’d be scared, but instead, she was almost hopeful.

  In her book, mad beat hurt any day. She could deal with mad.

  His hands balled into fists before he shoved them in his pockets. “How in the hell was I supposed to see you when you hid from me and everyone. You practically wore a freakin’ burlap sack, and let me tell you, that’s pretty hard to see through. How was I, or anyone else, supposed to get to know you when you were wearing a disguise?”

  “I thought of it more as protection. I received no unwanted come-ons, no people just seeing the body and not noticing what was between my ears. No one thinking I was a clone of my sister.”

  “I tried to get to know you, I tried to talk to you about things other than schoolwork, but you wouldn’t give me an inch. Every time I approached you, you’d run like a startled doe.”

  “I was nervous. I never fit in anywhere but with Mary Claire and Karma, and God, Stryker, you’re… you’re way out of my league.”

  “That’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever said. Don’t you see how amazing you are? Every time we go out in public I feel more like a bodyguard than a boyfriend. How can you be so blind?” He looked toward the ceiling as if asking for strength. “I noticed you the second you walked into the airport and it’s not because I recognized you—I didn’t. You had on that hot orange dress and those sexy sunglasses, and I was struck dumb. When you spoke to me, I felt as if I’d just won the lottery.”

  “That’s a really sweet thing to say, but—”

  “Cher, believe me, there’s nothing sweet about it. It was hot, down, and dirty want. I took one look at you and all I could think of was having you beneath me. I was thinking about that string holding up the top of your dress, and how I wanted to give it a tug and watch it fall. I wondered what color your panties were.”

  Trish’s mouth went dry.

  “I wanted you so bad, I was fighting a hard-on from the second you stepped in front of me. That hasn’t happened to me since I was Riley’s age. And then when you introduced yourself, I figured the only way I’d get you into my bed would be if I tied you to it. The vision of what you’d look like tied to my bed hasn’t left my mind since it branded itself onto my brain and that was all within the first ten minutes of seeing you.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “I know you didn’t.” He brushed back the hair falling into her eyes, and she swayed toward his hand.

  She stepped closer and held onto him. “I’m sorry.”

  He stared into her eyes as if he were searching for the truth.

  When he didn’t say anything more, she figured it was over. A tear dribbled from the corner of her eye and she knew a flood warning when she felt it. She took a stuttered breath, forced her hands to release the hold they had on his waist, and ordered her feet to step back. “I’ll just—” she motioned to the door and turned, wishing she could run and hide somewhere, wishing she didn’t have to sit there while he packed. Wishing she didn’t have to drive him to the shop. Wanting nothing more than to crawl into her bed, pull up the covers, and escape the vise-like pain that had to be her heart breaking.

  He grabbed her arm, stopping her. She didn’t turn around, if she looked at him again, she was sure she’d have a tear filled meltdown of enormous proportions. She was already too embarrassed for words.

  “Did you mean it?”

  “Every word.” She took another step before he lifted her and pulled her back to him, his strong arms wrapped around her waist.

  “Then why are you walking away?”

  “Because you didn’t ask me not to. Because you haven’t forgiven me. Because I don’t want to turn into a blubbering mess in front of you. So please, just let me go.”

  “I can’t. I don’t want to. I don’t ever want to let you go, but we have to make a deal—”

  “What kind of deal?”

  “From now on, if you start freaking out, you need to talk to me. Don’t run away—even if you need to let things marinate, don’t run away.”

  “Okay.” She lifted her hand and touched his face. Anger still vibrated through him, but he’d said he didn’t want to leave her. “Can you forgive me?”

  “Yes.” He slid his lips over the tendon of her neck and nipped it. “So, are you with me, Cher?”

  “For as long as you want me.”

  “Forever. I’ll want you forever.”

  Stryker felt like he was on an emotional rollercoaster. Anger, euphoria, fear, pain, desolation, and a bunch of other feelings he couldn’t identify rumbled through him and threatened to overwhelm him. He set Trish down and released her. “I need a shower, can you give me a few minutes?”

  “Sure, okay.” She didn’t look either sure or okay, but then neither was he. He took a deep breath and pressed a kiss to her forehead before heading to the bathroom. He stripped down, turned the water on to cold, and stepped in, blowing out a breath when the water hit his burned skin.

  He grabbed the soap and soaked his head as he soaped his body. She said she loved him, but she’d practically tossed him out the door five minutes before.

  Maybe she just needed time. Hell, he could use some, too. Can you fall in love in a matter of days?

  The water cooled his anger, his fear, and damped down the euphoria too. It was too early to bank on anything. The only thing that hadn’t slacked much was the need.

  There was a knock on the door. “Stryker, your phone is ringing.”

  “Shit, okay. Can you bring it in?”

  He turned the water off, grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his waist. He didn’t bother looking to see who it was before he answered. “Stryker Gyllenhaal.” He made a grab for Trish before she could scoot out and pulled her to his side.

  “Stryker, it’s Edwin Motz.”

  He felt himself smile. Edwin was one weird dude, but Stryker always liked him—he was veritable hockey encyclopedia and could give Jessie a run for her money when it came to spitting out stats. Edwin was a middle-aged geek with coke-bottle glasses that looked like he’d stolen them from an old lady in the 80’s. His hair was a little bit shaggy, always in need of a cut, and he wore clothes that were sometimes mismatched, and always baggy. Edwin had an unrivaled passion for hockey, and devoted his life to it after he made millions in internet startups. He was the kid who was never picked for a team, so in a weird way, he bought his way onto one. Edwin Motz was the Keeper of The Cup—he traveled with it, slept with it, and the guys on the team had all sorts of theories about what else he did with it. Stryker didn’t want to know, and as long as he washed The Cup daily, he figured it didn’t matter.

  “Edwin, what can I do for you?”

  “I’m just calling to confirm your day with The Cup. It’s this Saturday. I’ll be flying in Friday afternoon and I’m staying at the Grove Hotel, downtown.”

  “Oh, okay. Do you need anything from me?”

  “Just your itinerary for
Saturday.”

  “Do you want us to pick you up from the airport? We’d be happy to show you around town.”

  Edwin groaned. “We?”

  “Yeah, me and my handler, Trish Reynolds.”

  “The woman from YouTube?”

  “You caught that, did you?”

  “Of course I did. If you players paid as much attention to your games as you did to women—“

  “We’d win The Cup, which we did. So I think that’s a moot point—at least until next season. So save the lectures.”

  “Fine, fine. I’ll take the shuttle to the Grove. I’ll text you when I get in and we’ll finalize plans. Have your handler email me whatever itinerary she can remember so I have at least a rough idea of what I’m up against.”

  “I will, and I won’t tell Trish what you just said, for your own protection. I would think that if you saw the video, you’d know she’s not one you want to tangle with.”

  “Knowing you, you’re tangling with her regularly.”

  “I’m looking forward to seeing you. I’ll have Trish email what you need, and let me know if you change your mind about Friday.”

  He ended the call and nuzzled her ear. “We need to shoot Edwin a copy of Saturday’s itinerary.”

  She turned in his arms and kissed his chest. “Who is Edwin?” Her lips slid over his nipple and she sucked it into her mouth turning his dick into a towel rod.

  “Edwin Motz, the Keeper of The Cup.” His voice sounded as rough as 40-grit sandpaper.

  She ground against him, making him wish she were already naked. “I’ll get right on that,” Her breath hitched when he grabbed her ass and raised her off her feet. “If you have nothing more pressing for me to do.”

  His towel was in a pile on the floor, droplets of water clung to his chest as he pushed the door farther open. “Yeah, something pressing just came up. It could take a while.”

  “We’re late.” Trish ran to the softball field, hoping she hadn’t done something embarrassing like put her shirt on backward. She was never, ever, ever late. Except for right now.